


The Embrace of a Devil

by stickytabletwrites



Category: Frankenstein & Related Fandoms, Frankenstein - Mary Shelley
Genre: A lil fluff, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Reader is accused of witchcraft, Reader-Insert, Self-Insert, TC lives in this au after the events of the novel, TC speaks french, even though it was rather ambiguous whether he actually commited suicide or not in the novel, gender neutral reader, hurt comfort, like foam on a semi-sweetened coffee, set in early 1800's or late 1700's bc I love that time period and its more accurate, set in swiss/french village
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-17 20:19:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18105743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stickytabletwrites/pseuds/stickytabletwrites
Summary: A request from my Imagines/Headcanons blog that spiraled into a full fledged oneshot"It was that summer that you came to meet the man who you would later call beloved. He was ever elusive; you saw him only three times within those four months. While hanging up your wash, you would catch the faintest glimpse out of the corner of your eye of a man passing through the distant wood. Happy in finding your place within your new village, you offered him a wave, a good morrow, and a bright smile. He was much like a rabbit, startled when you acknowledged him (even at such a great distance that you were unsure if he could hear you) and fast to scamper off."





	The Embrace of a Devil

**Author's Note:**

> The original request was from @untold-heart on tumblr: Can I have a Frankenstein imagine, where they stick with him even if they've got hate aimed at them? And they find him reading it once, crying in their bedroom and they assure him of their love for him?

It was a quaint village by all accounts, small and within a valley, the people simple yet hospitable. You decided that’s what drew you to stay here, besides your need for work. A gentle farmer allowed you to stay in the little two room cottage that had been left abandoned on his property, renting it and the land to you for a greatly reduced price those first few months. You were beyond thankful for his great kindness, having arrived during a low point in your life, abandoned and left only with what few valuables you could hold in your hands. The cottage was in good shape overall, only in need of a new door hatch and cot on which to sleep. It was drafty that first winter with the lone petit fireplace, but immeasurably better than sleeping in the snow. You worked to pay your rent by mending clothes and doing a variety of menial chores for the farmer and his family while waiting for the thaw of spring. It was then that you began to prepare a garden, supplied with seeds by the charity of the Church, and found work in the village. You began to make friends and find a place within your new home.

Many were naturally distant from you as a newcomer, which was understandable to you; for many generations in your own hometown no one foreign had ever come to reside there. You did not hold it over your new neighbors, persuaded by those friends who had already adopted you as their own that you would win them over with time. You grew curious one day, catching a crowd of children giggling and gasping while peering at you from behind the corner of the General Store, ducking and shushing one another when they saw that you had noticed them. It seemed at the time to just be the excited antics of rowdy children, though it stuck with you throughout the day. You asked your friend, Berthe, about it that afternoon while mending a petticoat of her daughter’s.

“Ack, those kids,” she said, a tired smirk gracing her face. “You’ve heard the story of Mad Magdalene, yes?”

“I’m afraid I have not,” you admitted, fishing some thread from your hussif.

“Ah, that surprises me! She was an old spinster, the last of her family line. She was poor with money and ended up unable to afford her family’s farm. It belongs to the Zimmermann’s now. In any case, she went on to rent the Moulin’s shed and spent the rest of her family’s inheritance converting it into the little cottage you live in now,” she said, gesturing to you with ladle and a bittersweet smile before returning to her stew. “She was a bit of a hermit and filled her life with her cats. She’s been the subject of all sorts of rumors and gossip amongst the children. God help him, I once heard my little Aaron ask me if she had killed her family herself! Many of the children fancied her to be a witch, conjuring up imaginary shadow demons from the surrounding wood, throwing curses on them and the land. Admittedly, some of the more superstitious folk here were a hint weary of her, but I always just thought her a poor old woman, trying to enjoy the last of her years as best she could. She passed only a few years ago, rest her soul.”

You hummed for a moment, processing the tale.

“Do you believe they gossip about me because they believe my land to still be ‘cursed’?”

“Most likely,” Berthe mumbled while tasting the stock. “I would not fret over it. They’re only children; soon enough they’ll be contenting themselves with some other story.”

 

It was that summer that you came to meet the man who you would later call beloved. He was ever elusive; you saw him only three times within those four months. While hanging up your wash, you would catch the faintest glimpse out of the corner of your eye of a man passing through the distant wood. Happy in finding your place within your new village, you offered him a wave, a good morrow, and a bright smile. He was much like a rabbit, startled when you acknowledged him (even at such a great distance that you were unsure if he could hear you) and fast to scamper off.

Berthe’s words seemed to ring true as summer began to ebb. The children began to tell tales of a giant shadow with yellowed eyes stalking the woods; you would see them some days playing in the central grove, daring the bravest among them to enter the wood and see if they could find the creature. A few of them would pluck up at the challenge and enter, returning a few minutes later claiming to have vanquished it, though most would claim to have heard a parent call their name when dared. It reminded you much of your own childhood, inventing strange stories with friends to entertain yourselves, each tale quickly replaced by another. It relieved you to know that the childish giggles and gasps would not be so focused on you. It was about this time that the first letter was slipped under your door. It was evident by the poor penmanship and spelling that it was written by one of the children. The tone was of innocent curiosity, asking if you knew of any potion that may cure a torn doll. You found it sweet and amusing enough to nail a reply to your doorpost, instructing them to sew the tear closed and kiss the stitch to make the dolly better, as love was the most potent potion known to man.

You formally met your shy neighbor as the leaves began to redden with autumn’s chill. Overwhelmed in trying to settle her rambunctious children, knead her dough, and make sure her abode did not catch fire, Berthe had asked you to go out and gather her poultry flock. You were able to corral most of them back into the roost but noticed two had wandered far off into the distance, escaping to the wood. You pursued but found them to be leading you deeper and deeper into the woods. You tried luring them to you, bribing them with crumbs and clucking in their direction, which did secure you one bird, though the other escaped your sight.

You held the young hen under one arm, examining the brush with the other when you heard the sound of a twig snap around the large oak tree behind you.

“Hello?” you called, hopeful that someone may be able to help you in your increasingly desperate chicken-hunting efforts. Receiving no answer, you assumed that the other chicken had pecked a thin twig and caused it to snap; you turned around, hopeful that you would be able to simply scoop her up and be on your merry way. You clucked softly again, careful not to agitate the missing hen with any sudden movements as you stalked your way towards the noise. “Here chicky, chicky, chicky.”

No sooner had you said that did you see the shadow of a man slowly peak out from behind the tree. You were too embarrassed by the sudden realization that you had been clucking at a person rather than a bird to notice anything of their appearance, feeling warmth flush your face as your back straightened up.

“Ah, pardon me, monsieur,” you said, bowing your head in embarrassment, “I didn’t mean to mock you; I’m searching for a lost hen right now and was only hoping to lure it out. I am so sorry, I didn’t know that anyone else was even in here an-” Your rambling was cut off by the sound of fluttering feathers; you looked back up to see the man had the offending hen sat squarely upon his head.

“…I believe I’ve found it,” he deadpanned, and you tried to muffle your giggles with your free hand as a stray feather lodged itself in his long hair. The slight upturn of his lips was near imperceptible in his own shadow.

You began to visit him in the evenings at the edge of the forest by your cottage. He was still very shy, insisting on keeping himself at least partially obscured. Based on what scars you could see on his hands and his yellowed complexion, you assumed that he had suffered a severe illness or injury or some combination of the two as a child, leaving him exceptionally self-conscious. He also appeared to be quite gigantic in stature, though he would often try to eliminate your great difference in height by sitting or slouching.

The two of you passed those autumn evenings enjoying each other’s company, talking of literature, sharing anecdotes, and simply taking pleasure in observing the beauty of nature. Your friendly affections for your neighbor grew with each passing day, turning into something more as the autumn months slipped away. Although he mirrored your sentiments, he never believed you would feel the same. When you told him of your tender feelings, he tried to dissuade you from “making the mistake of loving such a wrench as me,” by uncovering his face and telling you his sad tale. He found himself to be bursting with the most acute affections when you embraced him with a gentleness he never knew instead of fleeing or beating him, as he had come to expect and had prepared himself for. He returned your hold, pulling you closer to him for the fear that you might just float away.

 

That monstrous shadow seemed to linger in the children’s minds much longer than you had expected. Their insistence on its reality began to shape an anxious tone within the village, especially when rumors began to swirl that it stuck near your land, already rumored to be bewitched. Soon your entourage returned to observe you from afar, reciting tales to younger children about how you had been cursed by Mad Magdalene to take her place as the witch of the village. You caught an older girl telling her brother to stay out of the woods, or your yellow-eyed familiar would snatch him up. You found the distant neighbors you had worked so hard to win over distance themselves even further from you. Going in to buy wares or perform work, you would find a hushed blessing directed your way in passing and you certainly didn’t miss how the elderly Mme Videment emphasized her “God be with you”-s in your presence. You tried your best to ignore it, hoping that with enough good attitude it may all eventually blow over.

It was a week or so after you had responded to the first letter that you received a reply, thanking you for your help and asking a few more curious questions, namely if you had any “magic kitties”. You assumed that an older sibling must’ve discovered their correspondence with you, as a flood of more letters from increasingly older children and teenagers appeared, shifting from amusing questions to accusations of witchcraft and “eloping with an agent of the Devil”, for what other reason would a demon lurk so near your home and yet leave you unscathed. The letters were sporadic, often not appearing for a month at a time. Thankfully, the age of witch trials ended near a century ago, replaced by an age of reason and enlightenment, which helped to quell the effect these accusations had on your daily life in the village. But no amount of reason or rationalization would soften the blows those words and attitudes inflicted on you.

You were by no means an idiot. You knew that the children’s monster was your own lover; both were of gigantic stature, sporting ethereal yellow eyes, and sticking to the area surrounding your cottage. You debated telling him of the notes of that first child, wondering if he would be as amused with their wondrous curiosity as you were. You were glad that you hadn’t after the next note arrived. He had already endured such a painful and calloused life, the last thing he needed was to feel the worst of yours. More than that, he would surely die of heartbreak if he ever came to believe that he was responsible for your misery and pain. You hid the letters as they arrived, doing your best to continue ignoring the stacking pressure in your chest and smile through it all. For him.

 

It was a good day to go out. The warmth of late spring lifted everyone from the gloom of winter, the fresh air lightening your spirit and increasing the cheer of the village. You had decided to make a grocery day of it, as your pantry was in need of several essentials and you needed to pick up some scrap fabrics from the Church with which to repair your lover’s cloak. However, you were most excited when you asked the General Store keeper where his literature was kept. You had been saving up coin throughout the winter to buy your lover a new book, as he was so passionate about his little collection and did so enjoy reading to you.

You felt accomplished walking back to your home, excited to surprise your lover with such gifts and proud of your own hard work in affording it. He wasn’t likely to come back to you until later that afternoon, as with the warm weather he liked to go out and about, foraging for chicory, nuts, and firewood, and simply enjoying the peace of nature. You shifted your basket to rest against your hip, opening the heavy door.

A quiet sob barely sounded over the creak of hinges as you entered.

“Hello?” Despite the softness of your call, the word still seemed to reverberate through the small space, as if you had instead interrupted the quiet meditation of a monk in chapel. A sharp cough followed by a heavy sniff was the only reply. You slowly rounded the corner to your chamber, observing the scene laid out before you from the stout doorway. Your lover sat at the foot of your cot, hunched in against himself and clutching a piece of parchment in such a manner that it balled in his hand. Your trunk was thrown open, the clothing and letters that were buried underneath littered the floor, scattered about his feet like leaves that had been thrown about in a great storm. His face was drawn tight, his posture taunt as a goatskin container set to burst; and, upon meeting your worried eyes, burst he did, returning to his sobbing with vigor. He seemed to fold further into himself, thin hands muffling his cries and hiding what parts of his visage were not concealed by long, limp hair.

“My Dearest, what’s wrong?” You couldn’t help the waver in your voice, watching the man you so loved reduced to such a frail sight.

He took a shaky breath and sniffed, drawing up his head. His eyes seemed to look past the parchment in his hand, reddened from his emotion.

“…How long?” You had never heard him sound so broken, so tiny and fragile. “These letters. How long have you been receiving them?”

“I…,” Your voice seemed to catch in your throat, suddenly too dry. “It’s not…um,”

“For. How. Long.” He met your gaze this time, the intensity of his emotion burning like a roaring inferno in his eyes and punctuating his every word. It compelled you to answer.

“It…Since late in the summer,” you said, unable to hold his gaze, the heavy weight of shame resting on your shoulders for not saying anything about the situation prior. “But it’s nothing to concern yourself with,” you reassured him, “I can take care of it just fine.”

“And how have you been ‘taking care of it’?”

“…I will be taking care of it.” He looked exasperated at your admission, frustrated by your nonchalance.

“They have called you a witch! ‘A harlot who sleeps in the embrace of a devil’!”

“They are only children, they know not what they say.”

“Children?! I may not have had much in the way of a childhood, but I refuse to believe that any innocent child would accuse a single soul of being harlot, of all things!” His voice grew hot in anger as he spoke, rising from his little perch to his full height, looming above you. “They may call me a monster or a fiend or a hideous wretch, for I have become calloused to such hate and fear, but I will not allow them to inflict such suffering on you!”

“Why should I permit you to suffer alone when I can lift some of your burden and place it upon my own shoulders?! Be we not companions of equal aspect?” you questioned, stepping closer to his form.

“I would sooner war with those hateful wolves than see you befall a fraction of my misery! I would have half a mind to lay ruin to all those who brought you pain!”

“How would that make you better than them?! Misery for misery is what seeds revenge, and they would soon be after us with violence! You would bring about a worse pain than that which has already been inflicted upon me!”

This seemed to give him pause, his stance tensing for a time as he contemplated your words. You held your ground, your eyes searching the other for give. He was the first to back down; his body seemed exhausted from the heavy emotion of the situation, his shoulders slacking with a deep sigh. Spent of his tears, he moved to sit back on the cot, meditating in the thick silence that encapsulated the room. You moved tentatively, setting down your goods and moving to accompany him on the cot. You sat there for a time in silence, which seemed so heavy as to suffocate the room. He carefully unfurled the letter in his hand, gently brushing over its wrinkles.

“I found this when I arrived. It was pinned to your door frame,” he said, his voice shattering the stillness of the room despite its softness. “They know of us. Together.”

“You weren’t aware of the children spotting you? You’ve been all they gossiped of for these past months.”

“Of course I was aware of them. I,” he paused, chest tightening before releasing a sigh. “I wasn’t aware that they had linked me to you. I didn’t want to bring this unto you, my sweetness.” He turned to you, dropping the letter to the floor before tenderly taking your hand and bending to bring it to his lips. “I am sorry,” he mumbled against your knuckles, voice wavering as you felt a fresh hot tear fall onto your hand. You realized that same wetness trailed down your own cheeks.

“No,” you said, wiping your eyes. “No, you have nothing to apologize for. I was receiving these letters even before you arrived into my life. You cannot hold yourself responsible for the actions of others. And they are yet children; they still have the time to learn and change. With the right guidance,” you said, reaching out to cup his cheek, wiping it of its wet trails with your thumb, “they can most certainly become better people.” He leaned into your touch, bringing his own hand up to cover yours; your other hand still rested in his, on his knee as he smoothed his thumb along your knuckles.

“Mon Dieu, how I love you so,” he whispered in reverence, allowing himself this simple moment. “You know how I love you so,” he reiterated, “so why would you neglect to tell me of this? It pains me beyond all words to know that you have been hurt, moreso that you felt you could not tell me of it.” He looked to you expectantly, gently removing your hand from his face.

“I, I didn’t want to burden you. You have already been victim to so much misery and heartache, I could not let myself add onto such a sad weight. And everything had been going so well for us, a new life for the both of us. I didn’t want to spoil it when it had just begun.”

“Oh, mon cœur vivant, ma bonté,” he brought you into an embrace, curling over you to rest his chin against the crook of your neck, his hands pulling you closer to him as if he feared you might just float away. You clung to him just as fiercely, feeling his chemise dampen with the remains of your tears. “You could never be a burden to me. You are the most kind and gentle being who has ever graced my presence, the light that lifts me and gives me hope.”

You remained in your embrace for a time, finding the comfort you both so needed from the other. You finally removed yourself from his hold when the mess made of your chamber began to nag at your mind. You got up and began to fold the clothing that had been recklessly thrown across the floor, your lover sheepishly joining you in your endeavors a moment later.

“If you would like, we could throw the letters into the fire tonight and watch them burn. I’ve always found it to be quite cathartic,” he suggested.

“…That would be very nice, my love.”


End file.
